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The Dinner at Antoine's

from New Orleans memories

By Merle Harton, Jr.

It was sometime in April, and a doctor friend of mine and his wife were in town for a conference, and he gave me a call and wanted me and my live-in girlfriend Christine to go out to dinner with them. "Sure," I said. The dinner was free, after all. Since they wanted to go down to the French Quarter, I suggested Galatoire's, on Bourbon Street. It's a great place to eat and, besides, with all the mirrors and tiles around the wall, it looks just like a men's washroom and I thought that would really help to convey the spirit of New Orleans to my visitors. But instead they wanted to go to Antoine's, I guess because they liked wood floors and dim lights and big expensive bills. "No problem," I said. Anyway, the dinner was free.

So we all met down at Antoine's at 8 o'clock and went inside. We were directed to a nice table upstairs and a waiter named Paul came by with his hand out and took our order. It was a big meal. We started with Oysters Rockefeller, and then Oysters Bienville and Oyster Soup, which came with two hefty oysters floating obscenely in the bottom of the bowl. Everybody else had something different to eat for the main course, but I ordered fried oysters. Obviously something was missing from my diet and I was having a craving. Besides it was an "R" month and that meant the oysters would be firm, not mushy.

About midway through the meal, though, the oysters began to have an effect on me. My doctor friend's wife, Rebecca, was just chatting away and then, as if by accident, her hand brushed against my knee. But then she did it again. Hey, that time it was no accident! And then Christine started rubbing her hand on my other knee and giving me winks and smiles. I imagined for a moment that I was James Bond in a kilt, being fondled during dinner at a ski resort. Rebecca started stroking my knee and giving me smiles and winks, too. Wait, this was really happening!

Then the waiter named Paul came by with his hand out and asked if everything was all right and proceeded to name all the desserts on a cart being wheeled around the room and waved a tall black man in a white busboy coat over to pour thick chicory coffee into our porcelain cups. I was at this point very light-headed and the room was starting to spin. The blood was going somewhere besides my head, but I couldn't be sure just where.

Then the maître de came by with an old-fashioned phone in his hand—the black kind with a big receiver and a rotary dial—and trailed a long cord behind him. He looked around the room and announced that there was a phone call for a Mr. Randolph Peirce. Christine and Rebecca just kept smiling and winking at me and stroking my knees, moving their hands up and down my thighs. "Paging Mister Randolph Peirce," said the maître de. "Mister Randolph Peirce? Mister Randolph Peirce."

Suddenly I jumped up and threw my arms in the air and shouted: "Garcon! Here, Garcon! I'm Randy! I'm Randy! It's true! I'm Randy!" As I rose, though, I caught the corner of the table and tipped it over and everything slid off onto the lap of my doctor friend.

Afterwards, standing on St. Louis Street, outside Antoine's, Rebecca said what a wonderful meal she had and, with a wink, thanked me for showing her such a fun time. My doctor friend was still inside the main entrance with our waiter named Paul. With one hand Paul was wiping down his front with a big napkin, all the while holding out his other hand, into which my doctor friend stuffed dollar bills. I could tell, even through the beveled glass doors, that my doctor friend was not pleased by the experience.

As for Christine, all she could say to me was: "Shame on you. That was the worst British accent I've ever heard in my life."